


hold me tight or don't

by Verbyna



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Engagement, Las Vegas Aces, M/M, Poor Life Choices, Post-Canon, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 15:51:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17124263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbyna/pseuds/Verbyna
Summary: Kent thought that if he and Zimms got together, life would be perfect.





	hold me tight or don't

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blithelybonny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/gifts).



> here we are, angsty on main again. thanks to summerfrost for the beta, and uh, happy christmas, mal! #hellsquadbestsquad <3

Kent thought that if he and Zimms got together, life would be perfect.

He thought that it would be a lot of work, obviously, because growing up isn’t a magic wand, and people only grow from whatever they started out as: Kent was a kid who spent all his time off the ice and outside the classroom completely alone.

Zimms was a kid who grew up praised for things he had no control over, like reminding people of Bob and no longer being a hideous baby - though he kept Alicia’s eye color, the only thing that makes his baby photos bearable.

The work Kent figured they were signing themselves up for went like this: Kent would learn to share - his time, his home, his feelings, his Netflix and Spotify accounts. Zimms would keep being Zimms, but less powerless. Just Jack, no last name, nothing but a young guy who likes taking photos and plays a sport for a living.

They’d still be rich and famous, but they’d also be Zimms-and-Kenny, the way they were when they first became themselves.

 

*

 

They’re all grown up now, and Zimms just proposed.

Kent doesn’t want to be the guy who muffles his sobs in a towel in the en-suite after his dream boyfriend proposes to him, but here he is, stuffing the damp towel so far in his mouth he almost gags on it.

He didn’t turn on all the lights, because the switch is outside in the bedroom, where Jack would see it flipped. Guys from their team are in the house for a party, and Kent sort of slipped on the ring and fucked off; Jack is probably looking. But the vanity lights for the mirror have their own switch along the side, a touch slide that Kent pawed at when he stumbled headfirst into the bathroom, so he could see the towel and grab it before he crawled into the corner.

 _You wanted this,_ he tells himself. _You wanted this exact thing to happen, you miserable fucker._

He knows that if he just got up and faced himself in the mirror, he could pull himself together. If he saw his own face in that unforgiving light, saw that he’s still Kent Parson - still pretty at thirthy-one, still the face on the sleeve of two NHL games, still the person he was in all the years he wished for this night to happen - he could go back out there and act like that person.

He has to do it. He has to. It’s been a couple of minutes, so he can still explain it away. Grab a blanket for someone’s kid or a nicer bottle of bourbon.

_What would Kent Parson do?_

He spits out the towel. Washes his face with cold water, then drips some Visine in the corners of his eyes, dabs the rundown on his nose and cheeks to get rid of the redness. 

There: good as always.

When he gets back to the living room, no one noticed he was gone. He’s so relieved that he smiles unprompted until everyone leaves.

 

*

 

Zimms talks in his sleep. It’s mostly nonsense, the same hockey dreams that Kent’s had since he was five, but Zimms talks about hockey with his dad a lot, too.

Zimms and Kent haven’t really talked since Zimms announced his transfer to Vegas.

Kent doesn’t sleep much. He keeps wanting to pinch himself, and sometimes he does, late at night while Zimms mumbles on the other side of the bed. He pinches over bruises so it won’t show; he pinches harder every time Zimms says Bittle’s name.

He never says Kent’s name. Not once.

It’s hard to sleep with someone in his bed. Kent has to be very still, because Zimms is a light sleeper, and he has to cry very quietly if he needs to cry. He’s a crier, like his dad, and he would always let himself do it - it’s easy when you’re alone all the time. He only started hiding it in Rimouski, but Zimms was so alarmed the first time Kent couldn’t control himself that Kent just…

He just didn’t, not again. Still can’t do it front of Zimms, all these years later.

In all his daydreams about being with Zimms, it never occured to Kent that he’d have to let tears dry itchy on his face because Zimms wakes up if there’s movement more than every ten minutes.

So Kent doesn’t sleep, and he listens. He doesn’t hear his own name. He stays very, very still. It’s what he wanted.

He wanted this so badly.

 

*

 

One day Kent was updating his heartbreak playlist on Spotify, the next Zimms was moving into his house and replacing Kent’s liney.

It’s not like Kent is stupid. He knows what a scoop Zimms was for the team - another Stanley Cup champion, someone who can follow Kent’s every twitch to its logical conclusion in the net; a veteran on a team mostly made up of new guys who had his and Kent’s posters on their walls last year. Their GM probably splurged on a threesome with his favorite sex workers to celebrate, right before releasing the first statement about inclusivity in the twelve seasons Kent’s been on the team.

And Kent has no idea where Jack Zimmermann really is. Certainly not in Kent’s house in Summerlin: Zimms whimpers Bittle’s name in his sleep, talks to Bad Bob on the phone all the damn time, and if he needs some salt at the table, he gets up and grabs it himself.

When he proposed, he wasn’t looking at Kent. He just stared and stared at the ring, like it pained him to give it away.

Kent wonders how long ago Zimms bought it.

If he had to have it altered.

 

*

 

December in Vegas isn’t pool weather, but Kent has a few of those restaurant terrace heaters outside, so he spends most of his time when he’s not playing or traveling with the team in the old Adirondack chair someone gave him when Kent bought the house.

It’s always so bright outside, and his Aces hoodie feels like a cocoon.

There are dead palm leaves floating in the water and a layer of scum on the shifting surface that catches the light. His housekeeper took one look at it two weeks ago and walked right back into the house, but Kent likes it. He wouldn’t know what to do if the pool looked perfect, the marble rim polished, clean and warm and inviting.

(He’d be compelled to jump in. He doesn’t know if he’d be compelled to come back out again.)

It’s better this way, just Kent in his uncomfortable wooden chair. If he lets his eyes relax, he sees shapes in the water - fish, maps, faces. He enters a sort of trance. It stops him from thinking.

Zimms wanders outside sometimes, too. He wanders the house a lot, Kent can see him in his peripheral vision through the glass wall, but when Zimms comes outside, he never notices Kent. Zimms just stares into the water, head tilted, completely still.

 _Look at me,_ Kent wants to scream. _Look for me. I’m so fucking easy to find._

It’s a little hypocritical, though: he comes out here so he won’t run into Zimms as Zimms circles the house, probably thinking he’ll catch Bittle around every corner.

If Kent stayed inside, he’d catch the same madness. He knows he would; he’s really fucking suggestible. He’d start looking for Bittle too, as though it’s not bad enough to know that Bittle is more real to Zimms than Kent is. Thousands of miles away, and it’s still Bittle that Zimms falls asleep missing, wakes up with in the morning, mutes Kent’s Spotify for when a sad song comes up.

Kent knows that if he cried too hard at night, Zimms would wake up reaching across their bed for Bittle.

He starts bringing his tablet outside to plan the wedding.

Maybe they’ll have it right here. Maybe they’d clean the pool for that, at least.

 

*

 

They’re not up for hosting the big Christmas or New Year’s Eve parties this year, but they can’t get out of the engagement party. Not when Zimms proposed in front of half the damn team.

Kent considers throwing himself into it just to have something to do, but he figures that he’d make a mess of it. He asks Alexa to find a party planner and forwards them a folder with photos of the house, a screenshot from his phone with everyone’s food allergies, and puts the budget and date in the subject line. He transfers the entire amount into the agency’s account when they start sending him quotes for everything.

Then he changes his mind, tacks another twenty thousand to the budget to buy out whatever venue the planner picks, and asks for no further updates until the invitations are out.

The planner ups their fee for having to drop every other event they’re coordinating to pull this party together in a week, and over Christmas. Kent would do the math, but he’s ridiculously rich at this point in his life, and also aware that he’ll never have another engagement party.

He might do things differently if Zimms was excited. Didn’t Kent used to punish himself with a fantasy just like this? Didn’t Kent go over the guest list when he couldn’t sleep after he said something that made Zimms shut Kent out for months?

In the fantasy, Zimms met his eyes when he proposed.

If it can’t be like that, Kent will have to settle for it being perfect.

 

*

 

They have the beginning of a fight before the party.

Zimms has been going stir-crazy, but he hates Vegas with unholy passion. Some days, when they’re not traveling for games, Zimms wakes up pissed off and winds himself tighter and tighter until Kent gives up and goes outside. It’s just as bad as the other thing Zimms does, wandering aimlessly; the only difference is that on angry days, he sees Kent.

“One hundred and twenty fucking people?”

Kent grips the fork tighter, then relaxes his hand and drags a leaf of arugula through the dressing at the bottom of the bowl. He tries looking at Zimms - needs to catch Zimms _looking_ at him off the ice - but that just makes it more tense.

He doesn’t have the energy to fight Zimms. He knows how good Zimms is at disappearing, and this time Kent couldn’t drag himself after him. And if he can’t follow Zimms, where the hell is he supposed to go?

Kent asked for this. He begged for it, and now he’s literally paying for it. The least he can do is modulate his voice.

“I invited your old team with plus-ones. Your mom sent me a list of, like, thirty people. And your bud Shitty slid into my fucking DMs and gave me another twenty. And then there’s the team, the WAGs, staff, and my local crew. So yeah. A hundred twenty.”

“I don’t want--”

“It’s not a party if there are no fucking _people there,_ Zimms. Who do you wanna cut off? Pick a group and we’re down by thirty. The invites aren’t out yet.”

Zimms makes a fist against the table like he’d rather punch it, then deflates. Goes away.

It’s not how an engagement party would go if Bittle was involved, Kent guesses.

“I’m sorry,” Zimms says. “You’re right. Everyone expects it.”

“Right,” Kent echoes.

“We’re out of soy sauce.”

“I know. I put it on the list.”

“Great.”

And that’s that. They eat their under-salted salads and roll their suitcases to the front door for the morning flight to LA, then they go to bed, and Kent feels like he dodged a bullet but maybe swallowed it instead.

 

*

 

The party is on a Sunday, the 27th of December. They don’t have to play for a couple of days after, and Kent is aware that most people on the list aren’t local, so they’ll make a long weekend of it and scatter for New Year’s. Kent’s shilling for their hotels, too.

He moved on from leaving everything to the planner to double-checking every detail. This is Kent Parson’s engagement party. He’s dreamed about it half his life.

It’s Christmas Eve, though, so he can’t keep bugging his tailor about the suit.

Since everyone is gonna be here soon, he and Zimms are alone for the holiday. If he’s honest, Kent would’ve preferred it if Alicia and Bob had flown in early, but they had some charity stuff back in Montreal. So did he and Zimms, but that was just three hours mid-morning at a hospital, and now they’re back at the house, and everything’s _perfect._

He Instagrams his tree. The decorator did a great job.

Zimms is on the phone in the kitchen, but Kent isn’t thinking about that. He can’t, because he has to update his story - he handed his Twitter over to PR years ago. This is the one thing he does that’s all him.

He can still hear Zimms begging on the phone.

Kent snaps the tree again, does a little video of the twinkling lights, wavers between two filters for a minute before he does his daily selfie. He tags the decorator on the giant wreath in the background.

“Please,” Zimms says, “ _please,_ you know it’s not like that, just--”

Kent puts his phone down and says, “Alexa, open guided meditations.”

He does a tour of the house, slowly. His bedroom - his and Zimms’, at this point, but he suspends his delusions when he’s trying to meditate. The guestroom next, pulled along by the calm voice in the hidden speakers, and the guestroom balcony with its view of the pool. It smells like being alone, and Kent breathes in deeply as directed.

There are little lights strung along inside the glass wall downstairs, and he watches Zimms pacing in the kitchen, and he doesn’t scream _look at me_ because the house is soundproofed and he’s still afraid Zimms might hear him.

The upstairs hallway is lined with Kent’s magazine covers, blown up to frame back when Kent was alone with himself every night. He glances at them, but doesn’t linger; he’s in a forest, he’s breathing out stomach-first, he’s walking down the stairs and his mind keeps slipping sideways into every Christmas he had with Zimms and every Christmas he spent thinking about Zimms since, but he reins it in.

He reaches the living area again.

Zimms says, “Please, I can _end this,_ I can catch a flight--” and Kent says, “Alexa, louder.”

Zimms stops pacing and looks over at Kent. _Breathe deeply. Feel it in your diaphragm._ Kent has no control over his facial muscles, he has no idea what his face is doing, but Zimms is staring at him wide-eyed.

“Alexa, shut up.”

Kent is screaming, screaming, _screaming_ on the inside.

 

*

 

The party is as amazing as the planner said it would be. It’s in an over-the-top space with a chandelier theme - crystals strung across the ceiling to catch the light, enough champagne to drown the whole guestlist. Zimms and Kent’s suits turned out all right, despite the rush order.

Kent’s on his third or fourth glass when he notices that Zimms is talking - laughing, even - with his old college buddies. He excuses himself and gets closer to them; he doesn’t want to interrupt, he just wants to know what makes Zimms laugh like that.

He wishes he hadn’t when he realizes they’re talking about Bittle.

It’s not hard to rationalize. Just like it was impossible to mention Zimms when he first met these guys without mentioning Kent in the same breath, there’s no way to reminisce about old times with them when Zimms was with Bittle for most of his twenties. Not just Bittle, but college (where Bittle was) and Zimms’ hockey career so far (in Providence, where he lived with Bittle).

The smart thing to do would be making himself scarce, and that’s exactly what Kent is trying to do when Shitty spots him and calls him over. Loudly and enthusiastically.

“Parse, my man!” Shitty says when Kent’s sidled over. He slings an arm over Kent’s shoulder and yanks Kent against his side. “Just the guy I was waiting for!”

“Good to see you too, bro,” Kent says gamely. “I miss the ‘stache, what’s up with that?”

“Lardo told him it made him look droopy on C-SPAN,” Derek says.

Zimms smirks. “Bitty keeps _telling you,”_ he starts to say, then stops and grabs a fresh glass of champagne from a passing server. “I barely recognized you, man,” Zimms finishes lamely.

“We can’t all stay young and pretty like you and future hubby here,” Shitty says. He squeezes Kent’s shoulder discreetly.

They all know, of course.

One of them would’ve shopped for the ring with Zimms a couple of years ago. They all went on holidays together, and Zimms would’ve said he wants days like those until they’re old and grey. Zimms probably made it clear in a thousand tiny ways that his future would be with Bittle - he does that, it’s one of the things that made Kent fall for him in Rimouski: Zimms makes things sound like they’ll be wonderful forever, and he genuinely believes it when says it.

Everyone here knows that Kent’s a placeholder. It doesn’t matter that Kent was here first.

And it doesn’t really matter, in the end. Kent’s patient; he doesn’t ask for much. Eventually, he knows, the brain tricks the heart. It doesn’t mend it, but it clutters it with mornings in the kitchen and smiling for cameras and arguments over the toothpaste tube, Christmases and birthdays and muscle rubs after hard games.

Zimms reaches for Kent’s hand. All of Zimms’ friends are watching; Bob and Alicia too, from across the room.

Kent lets Zimms have it.

They must look so happy.


End file.
